Tormented by the abduction of Sita, Rama’s heart was overwhelmed by sorrow. As he lamented her loss, his mind, usually so steadfast, became distraught for a moment. His whole body trembled, and, lost in his grief, he sat down—afflicted, miserable, sighing deeply and long. Again and again, the lotus-eyed Rama sighed, his voice choked with tears as he cried out, “Alas, my beloved!” Lakshmana, his dear brother and companion, was himself stricken with grief. He approached Rama with joined palms, and in many gentle ways tried to console him. But Rama, disregarding Lakshmana’s comforting words, could not be soothed. He saw nothing but Sita’s absence and, again and again, called out her name in anguish. Now begins the sixty-second chapter of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, in the Aranyakanda. Rama, righteous and mighty-armed, his mind overcome by grief at not seeing Sita, continued to lament. As if seeing her before him, yet knowing she was gone, he was tormented by love and spoke words heavy with sorrow—words difficult even to utter. “O beloved,” he cried, “you cover your body with the branches of the Ashoka tree, fond of flowers as you are—but these only increase my pain. O goddess, your thighs are like the stems of the plantain, hidden among the leaves, yet I see them—you cannot conceal them from me. O gentle one, you play in the grove of karṇikāra trees, laughing, O goddess; enough of this jesting that only brings me pain. In this hermitage, such laughter is not proper; I know your playful, teasing nature, beloved. Come, O wide-eyed one—your hut is empty. Surely, Sita has been eaten or carried away by the rākṣasas. She does not come to me, lamenting, O Lakshmana. Look at these herds of deer, their eyes filled with tears, O Lakshmana. It is as if they are telling me that the goddess was devoured by night-roaming demons. Alas, my noble one, where have you gone? Alas, virtuous, beautiful lady! Alas, today Kaikeyi will be satisfied, O goddess, for I have returned without Sita, though I set out with her. How shall I enter my empty inner chambers? People will say I am powerless and pitiless. Indeed, my fearfulness is made plain by Sita’s abduction, and by my return from the forest exile to King Janaka, lord of Mithila. How will I look upon Janaka, king of Videha, when he asks after Sita’s welfare and sees me alone, separated from her? Tormented by the loss of his daughter, he will surely fall into delusion. Or else, I will not go to the city ruled by Bharata. Even heaven itself, without her, seems empty to me. Therefore, leaving me here in the forest, you should go to the auspicious city of Ayodhya. But I could never live without Sita, not in any way. Embrace Bharata tightly and tell him these words from me: ‘You are permitted by Rama to rule the earth. My mother Kaikeyi and Sumitra, O noble one, are to be cared for by you. And Kausalya too is to be respectfully greeted according to propriety, by my command; she must be diligently protected by you, who walk the path of virtue. The destruction of Sita and myself, O destroyer of foes, must be fully reported to my mother by you.’ Thus, as the sorrowful Raghava lamented, having entered the forest without Sita of lovely hair, Lakshmana too, his face stricken with fear, became deeply distressed, his mind greatly afflicted. Now begins the sixty-third chapter. That prince, deprived of his beloved, tormented by grief and delusion, made his brother despondent with his own sorrowful appearance, and again sank into intense despair. Rama, plunged into great sorrow and overwhelmed by grief, spoke to Lakshmana—who was also overcome—uttering words fitting their misfortune, sighing deeply and weeping with anguish. “I do not think there is another on earth like me who has committed such evil deeds; for sorrow upon sorrow, in succession, breaks my heart and mind. Surely, I must have repeatedly committed sinful acts in the past; and now, as a result, I have fallen into this suffering, misery upon misery. The loss of the kingdom, separation from my kin, my father’s death, and separation from my mother—all these, when I consider them, Lakshmana, fill me with waves of grief. But all this sorrow, O Lakshmana, had subsided in my body after enduring hardship in the forest; yet now, due to Sita’s separation, it has flared up again, like fire suddenly kindled among dry wood. Surely, that noble lady, frightened, was carried off by a demon, perhaps high into the sky; her sweet voice, distorted by fear, must have cried out again and again in terror. Those two breasts of my beloved, beautiful and always adorned with the finest sandalwood, must now, in their rounded form, be smeared with blood and mud—surely, my dear has fallen to such a fate. That face, with its delicate, clear, gentle speech and the mass of curling hair, now subdued by the demon’s power, does not shine—like the moon obscured by Rāhu. The neck of my virtuous beloved, adorned with her necklace, which always suited her, has surely been bitten by the demons, who in this desolate place break through and feed on blood. Deprived of me, in the lonely forest, she was seized and dragged away by demons; surely, she cried out in distress like a forlorn curlew, her long, lovely eyes wide as she was released. Here, together with me, she once sat on the stone slab, noble in conduct; smiling sweetly, Lakshmana, laughing aloud, Sita spoke to you with many words. This Godavari, foremost among rivers, was always dear to my beloved; I wonder if she went there, yet she never goes alone.” Thus did Rama, his heart shattered by grief, pour out his sorrow to Lakshmana, the pain of separation from Sita overwhelming all else.